


our spirits rushed together at the touching of the lips

by goddcoward



Category: Naruto
Genre: (?), ....that's really all there is to it, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Bad Decisions, Communicable Disease, Fluff, Goodbyes, Humor, Just Add Kittens, Long-Term Relationship(s), Long-distance relationships, M/M, Mild Angst, Near Death Experiences, Separation, Sickfic, THEYRE GOOPY AND IN LOVE., i think? eventually, in future chapters, kiss meme, madara is a himbo, these are NOT responsible practices for romance in the time of miss rona, they are NOT social distancing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-25
Updated: 2020-06-16
Packaged: 2021-01-03 03:41:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21172829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goddcoward/pseuds/goddcoward
Summary: MadaTobi kiss meme compilation, taken from a variety of tumblr posts and turned into fulfilling gay romance for your viewing pleasure





	1. I - goodbye kisses

**Author's Note:**

> i have class in half an hour and i wrote this in like forty-five minutes but. ITS CUTE. so im posting it
> 
> i know madatobi is the farthest thing from canon besides perhaps s*susaku but like. imagine if it wasn't. imagine..............if madara and tobirama ever interacted even ONE TIME in the text...............
> 
> it would be terrible but it would be crack and thats that on that folks!
> 
> anyway here's some smooches :-)

He slips into the house under the cover of darkness, fully intending to ready himself and leave before Madara, still sleeping, ever notices he’s there.

He fails miserably.

“The fuck are you doing, Senju?”

The sound of his lover’s voice comes out of nowhere, and Tobirama curses under his breath as he whirls around. Madara’s chakra had been slumbering in their bedroom not even a second before, but when he looks up, his Uchiha is standing in the doorway, dark eyes glittering in the weak winter moonlight as he taps his fingers against those gorgeous biceps.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” Tobirama murmurs, standing to greet his favorite bastard. “You were sleeping, weren’t you?”

Madara’s arms open up, and he steps into the warmth of his hold, muscles going lax and tension bleeding out of his shoulders as he’s able to bury his face in Madara’s throat, safe beneath the black veil of his hair, safe in his lover’s grip. 

“No. Hashirama told you to stay back after the meeting for a reason, and I thought it might lead to something like this. He’s given you a job, hasn’t he?”

Tobirama nods wordlessly, head bobbing beneath the other’s chin. 

“Bastard,” Madara says, but fondness seeps through the bitter bite of his tone. 

“He didn’t know we had a date planned,” he reminds him softly. “He didn’t know, and this is important. It shouldn’t even take that long.”

Madara huffs, but there’s no offense reddening his chakra signature, and it remains a brilliant molten gold, his energy reaching out to mingle gently with Tobirama’s own, the give-and-take fluctuation of their chakra coils familiar and comforting. “What_ever. _He did know that we were both taking this weekend off, and it would have been nice if he’d respected that.”

Tobirama draws back just enough for him to see Madara’s pout, and he nuzzles into his cheek, long dark waves tangling with his own hair. “It would have,” he agrees, easy and light, “but when is anything in our lives ever nice or, for that matter, simple? Anija just wants me to ensure that the Raikage makes it back to Kumo in one piece. There have been rumors about a potential ambush.”

Madara’s arms tighten around his back until his ribcage begins to creak audibly in protest. “…You be careful, stupid Senju. I’ve put a lot of effort into making you a better person and I would be _displeased_ if you were to waste it just because you got sloppy.”

He smiles, pressing a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth, pleased when it works; Madara turns his head so that they can kiss properly, languid and loving, distracted from what thoughts they might have of the potential dangers of Tobirama’s surprise mission. They’re both shinobi – they should be accustomed to worrying.

He knows, though, that Madara lost two brothers to missions where his precious people left and just never came back. He knows that there is no certainty in the violent rush of the world they live in. He knows that neither one of them is invincible, that they’re just as prone to death as anyone else.

“You ought to let me go, koibito. I need to finish preparing and the Raikage leaves in half an hour.”

With some reluctance, the arms wrapped tight around his torso loosen until he can wriggle free. “Fine. If you die, I’ll be angry with you.”

Tobirama snorts, not bothering to look around. He doesn’t want to have to expose himself to Madara’s wanting expression; he might not be strong enough to carry out his duty if he does. “Then come over here and help me strap on this armor.”

It’s not his usual outfit for combat, but his sleek, silvery ANBU gear, all ballistic fabric treated with chakra and light, flexible metal that fits against the surface of his body like a glove. It conforms to his body to the point where he can’t reach some of the clasps on his own, and Madara is very obviously not pleased with him, but he steps forward with a grumble, and gloved hands slide over Tobirama’s shoulderblades as he helps buckle him into his chestplate.

He’s not taking his fur this time – the point of the mission is stealth, and his trademark collar would go a long way in helping potential enemies identify him – and his neck feels oddly bare as he turns around to face his lover, strapping a few storage scrolls and exploding tags and Hiraishin kunai to the leather harnesses on his thighs and waist.

“You’ve got shuriken?” Madara asks, face tight with concern. “You’ve got ninja wire and flares and snacks for the road and—”

“I have all of those things, yes,” Tobirama tells him dryly, patting himself down to emphasize the places where the lines of his armor and clothing are disturbed by his armament. “I even remembered to bring my head this time.”

That earns him an arched eyebrow and a Sharingan glare, but in the distance, he can sense the Raikage’s chakra pulse. He’s likely getting ready to leave.

He turns to go, but the familiar pressure of Madara’s hand on his shoulder stops him. He doesn’t quite turn around, but he tilts his head to the side so that he can look at his Uchiha out of the corner of his eyes. “What is it, Mada? It’s past time for me to go.” 

Madara doesn’t speak. He steps closer, closer, closer until his chest is to Tobirama’s back, and he can feel the furnace-like heat of his body even through the armor and the underclothes. Hair tickles at his exposed neck as he buries his nose in the side of his throat. 

“I don’t want you to go,” he says, voice very small, and it’s puerile and stupid and redundant, since Tobirama will be going whether Madara likes it or not, but – he understands that urge, the need to keep your precious people close and under your protection, a drive born of watching little brothers buried in too-small coffins and family lost to the wars over the years. 

“I know,” Tobirama says, just as quiet. 

They stand there for a minute, their chakra signatures wrestling each other in an affectionate stranglehold of energy. Madara’s arms slip around his waist, tugging him closer into his chest, and it’s with a sigh that Tobirama disentangles himself from his lover’s hold.

“I’ll be back.”

He’s just about to leap out the window when the hands clench tight around his shoulders and drag him around to face his Uchiha, and he’s moments from getting genuinely frustrated when there’s the soft, warm press of Madara’s lips against his own.

The left hand drops to caress his hipbone, the right slipping down to wrap around his waist, and for a long second, they kiss in the darkness, the taste of Madara’s smoking like ash and gunpowder in the back of his throat, the hot wet welcomeness of his mouth an addicting distraction. Their tongues barely touch, tender and tentative, and Tobirama sees the request for what it is. 

_Come home safe, love,_ Madara requests of him without speaking a single word. _I’ll be waiting._

_Of course,_ Tobirama responds, allowing his eyes to slide shut as he leans into his embrace. _Always. Always._

They stop for breath five minutes later, and the urgency of Tobirama’s mission is not at all helped by the sight of Madara, mouth hanging open, lips shiny and red and kiss-swollen, elegant high cheekbones painted pink with a blush.

Tobirama pecks him on the mouth one last time, and then he’s out into the chill of January, met with no resistance for once. 

He vanishes into the night with the lingering sweetness of Madara’s tongue on his lips, the soft heat of another’s breath in his mouth, and the memory of their chakra signatures mingling together keeps him warm in the cold, cold darkness.


	2. II - i missed you kisses

The separation is physically agonizing.

For most Bonded soulmate pairs, it’s just viscerally uncomfortable. For the average Uchiha, it’s like a fever, a full-body ache that burns through a person and leaves them weakened and exhausted and cantankerous more often than not.

For Madara it is the phantom excruciation of a missing limb, the sensation of his heart torn beating from his chest, the caliber of pain that would leave a weaker shinobi paralyzed and bedbound.

Tobirama has been gone for _two months_ now, locked away to fester in some dank, dark dungeon so far from Madara that their connection is reduced to a gossamer thread on the verge of snapping, and every breath is a sting worse than winter air in summer lungs. Every thought is chased with the silvery soreness of an oncoming migraine. His entire being feels like it’s alive with hurt in the worst possible way, nerve endings rubbed raw and naked, the healing balm of his soulmate’s presence trapped five thousand miles from the home they share in the Uchiha compound.

The dawn of every new day sees him wandering listlessly through the streets of Konoha, sensor’s sight stretched to its very limits, that much-beloved chakra signature nowhere within its field of perception.

Hashirama’s been crying about it. Izuna is in mourning. Even Mito has been worried lately.

It’s not like Tobirama is _dead._ That would be something else altogether. Since the moment they met he and Madara have shared one heartbeat and a single mind, and should one ever cease to function, the other would as well. If Tobirama weren’t alive, he wouldn’t be either.

Perhaps that would be preferable. An eternity in the Pure Lands with his love is a much sweeter song than the blistering agony of everyday life without him.

He thinks about it often, but he never does it, because Tobirama _isn’t dead._ The smallest shred of possibility that he could one day return to Madara means that he can’t even try, because who would he be to deprive his most precious one of the joys of the waking world?

(Who would he be to leave behind his family because he isn’t strong enough to bear the burden of an existence without his Tobirama?)

It happens in the middle of the night, dead in the smallest hours of the morning. One moment Madara’s Bond is cold and inactive as it has been for weeks now and the next it’s warm and lively, Tobirama’s presence pulsing along its length to suffuse with his own for the first time in far too long.

He’s out of the bed with the speed of an arrow, heart caught in his throat as he throws out his sensor’s sight in a net of awareness, and there – there he _is,_ there’s his soulmate, all oceanic chakra and wintry energy and the cool, cool relief smothering the heat of Madara’s absence-induced fever.

He doesn’t give Tobirama a chance to enter the village properly before he’s upon him. The world blurs and slows when his beloved comes into sight, too thin, _far _too thin, skeletal and pale and very clearly exhausted, but _alive,_ alive, alive, alive, _alive._

Alive and _not dead_ and all Madara’s to love and to cherish until the end of time.

The shinobi guarding the gate try to stop them, but their efforts are for naught. No force in the world could shatter the hold of the gravitational pull they have on each other, and they collide in a small supernova of tangled limbs and thrashing chakras and breathless, wheezing laughter.

Tobirama tastes like spearmint and starlight and searing, stormy ozone, the soft chapped press of his lips against Madara’s own the only sensation in the world. The longer they hold each other the more the pain ebbs, melting away until it is gone entirely for the first time in _months,_ an unfamiliar, forgotten ecstasy bubbling up in his chest like carbonation.

Beneath him Tobirama shivers, and Madara clings tight to his bony body, releasing the warmth of his core Fire chakra into his soulmate’s form, endlessly relieved when he stills, collapsing into his embrace and alive and _home._

“You _bastard,”_ Madara snarls into his mouth, licking at his tongue, voice broken and halting. “Oh, you motherfucker, do you _know _what it’s been like without you—”

The sound of Tobirama’s reply is the most beautiful thing he’s ever heard. “Madara, you idiot, of course I do, the Bond goes two ways and you were away from me as much as I from you—”

He’s silenced with another, deeper kiss. It’s been years since they needed _words_ to communicate.

_I missed you I missed you I missed you,_ Madara tells his soulmate, tapping the words into his cold, clammy skin, kissing them into his pretty pink mouth, hugging them into the jut of his bones. _I am nothing without you, love. Don’t ever leave me again._

Tobirama’s tears are salty on his tongue, dripping down his cheeks to the corner of his lips, and Madara kisses them away, forcing their bodies closer together until no space remains between the two of them.

_I love you, I love you, I love you. There is nothing more important to me than your safety. There is nothing more important to me than your happiness. There is nothing more important to me than **you.**_

Hashirama has to use the Mokuton to pry them off of each other half an hour later and he’s nearly set on fire for his _gall._


	3. III - we can't do this kisses (soft edition, part one)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is being posted in two parts i did not expect it to blow tf up and i want the second bit to be from tobirama's pov

Izuna is sick.

Honestly, Madara isn’t worried. The Uchiha disposition towards Katon means that his body is more resilient to elevated temperatures, and his fever isn’t high enough to cause any real damage. He’s nauseous but not so much so that he can’t keep food down, so at least he’s getting some nutrients. His throat burns, and drinking and swallowing and speaking are painful to him, but it’s not exactly terminal, since the brat won’t stop _complaining._

Kaa-chan was the best healer their Clan has had in generations, and Izuna should know that for all of Madara’s mother-hen tendencies, he won’t be getting special treatment just because he’s got a nasty cold.

“A-_ni_-ki,” Izuna croaks, curled over the lit kotatsu and mashing his cheek into the tabletop. “Aniki, when are you gonna be done with my soup? I’m not getting any better.”

Madara doesn’t look up from where he’s stirring a massive pot of traditional Uchiha set-your-lungs-on-fire soup – good for the soul, bad for germs. “You’re not getting any _worse,_ either. It’s already been simmering for a few hours now, so you don’t have much longer to wait. If you’re bored you can practice good hygiene by sterilizing my kotatsu so that you don’t infect your generous, caring elder brother with your cold—”

“My death-plague,” Izuna corrects. _“Death-plague._ Downplaying the severity of a fatal illness in its earliest stages is how people become too sick to save, Aniki. When I die because of your cruel insistence on neglecting proper bedside manner, I’m going to make sure the elders know that _you’re_ the one lighting my pyre.”

The stew is almost finished; the heady fragrance of curry spices and concentrated capsaicin extract is beginning to burn Madara’s nose. It should be appropriately agonizing to consume in just a few minutes, if that, and then Izuna will either have the pathogens seared right out of him or he’ll be too busy trying to extinguish his mouth to keep talking. “If you wanted to stay healthy you shouldn’t have tongue-fucked every single shinobi who has come back from missions abroad in viral hotspots with the sniffles. That isn’t even going to the length of taking preventative measures to keep yourself well. You’re not advanced enough for that.”

There’s a rasping cough followed by an unfortunate hacking noise and a despairing moan. If that bratty little bastard has gotten phlegm on furniture other people use, not even Amaterasu will be able to save him from Madara’s vengeful wrath.

When he brings over an ample serving of liquid hellfire, Izuna looks pathetic enough as he’s trying to wipe his diseased nose-slime off the kotatsu that he just gives his brother the damn soup and lets him wallow in misery without further commentary.

No one appreciates his kindness, and five minutes later Izuna is snore-wheezing into his empty bowl, having done an excellent job of getting roughly a fifth of the soup into his body and the rest of it all over himself and the table.

He’s just about to resort to violence when an elegant, black-furred ninneko materializes in Izuna’s arms, a threat clearly evident in her delicate features.

“Kurohime,” Madara whisper-shouts, doing an admirable job of keeping his volume below deafening. “Kurohime, he’s made a _mess—”_

The queen flicks a dismissive ear at him. “I’ll make sure he cleans it up once he’s awake again. I’m not saying he’s a model patient, Madara-sama, but sleep is exactly what he needs right now.”

The urge to yank on Izuna’s bangs and have him scour the kotatsu until it’s shining is still strong, but she’s right, and he didn’t want to have to clean that up anyway. He already watches many Uchiha toddlers; at least this one can take care of himself.

Sort of.

Kurohime rarely graces the actual Uchiha compound with her presence, meaning that she must have a good reason to return. She’s managed to infiltrate Senju lines with her soft, thick pelt and precious little paw-pads, and is officially assigned to long-term reconnaissance.

In reality she’s keeping an eye on Tobirama. She’s the only general summons Madara’s trusted with the truth of their relationship, and has so far maintained that secret with upmost discretion. Her visits are few and far between, and she’ll slip through windows with long silver hairs clinging to her whiskers and the smell of coming snowstorms like a perfume around her form. Madara suspects that Kurohime has only agreed to help him in this without demanding compensation because she’s courting one of Tobirama’s snow leopard summons, but it’s never been a problem, and it means she has a personal investment in preserving this relationship.

Izuna chokes on a sneeze, and Kurohime vacates his lap before he befouls her fur with mucous, winding around Madara’s feet and rubbing a cheek against his ankle.

“Kurohime. You have news?”

“Mm, yes, that. Your Tobirama-mate has fallen ill. I wouldn’t be surprised if contact with Izuna has proved infectious, but his coloring deficiency is associated with a weaker immune system, and he’s been bedbound with a high fever for over a day now. It’s not quite dangerous, not yet, but his body cannot fight off pathogens the way it should be able to, and his condition has been deteriorating.”

He freezes, mind racing. _Obviously_ Tobirama needs him, but how the hell is he supposed to successfully infiltrate an enemy compound with the Senju on high alert to compensate for their heir being unable to work?

“How the hell am I supposed to—”

Kurohime narrows her eyes. _“Carefully,_ Madara-sama. I wouldn’t have told you anything if there weren’t some way to help him. It is known that your bipedal irrationally is strongest where the Tobirama-mate is concerned, and if you’re going to insist on doing something reckless and impulsive, which you _are,_ you’ll need help in order to succeed.”

An hour later, Madara is dangling from the jaws of a horse-sized snow leopard, forcing himself to remember that he’s doing this for _Tobirama._ It shouldn’t be necessary – at any given moment there’s a fifty/fifty chance he’s already thinking about the man – but something about having knife-like canine teeth digging into his nape is distracting.

At least _Kurohime_ gets the dignity of _walking._

Madara can’t squirm, his entire body having gone limp on reflex the moment he’d assumed his disguise, but he doesn’t need to move in order to get the queen’s attention. The spring in her step makes it more than obvious that she _knows_ what he’s thinking, slender silhouette only barely able to contain the _smugness._

Over time Kurohime has established herself as one of Tobirama’s shadows, just another stray taking shelter in the Senju compound. The guard on duty is a kunoichi so tall that Madara has to lift his chin to see her properly, and years of conditioning have him stiffening at the sight of her, but she recognizes Mizushi as one of Tobirama’s most faithful summons and does nothing more than quirk an eyebrow when she notes Madara’s presence.

There is no warning. One moment Madara is being carried around like a sack of rice and the next he’s _falling,_ so surprised that he almost doesn’t land on his feet.

“Tōka,” Mizushi rumbles, serene in her superiority. “Is he better?”

Senju Tōka looks down at the small black kitten crumpled on the ground, radiating skepticism. Madara misses opposable thumbs and highly-developed vocal cords more than he ever thought he could. “Sleeping, or he was last time I checked, and if he doesn’t want trouble it’ll be what he’s doing now. What’s with the lint?”

This is part of the plan, he reminds himself. This is a _crucial_ part of the plan. Tobirama would be mad at him if he tried to maul his favorite cousin, and he’s doing this for Tobirama. He _loves_ Tobirama. This is the most galling indignity he has yet forced himself to endure for the sake of his beloved, but it is far from the worst of what he would do to keep that bastard safe and happy.

“Just a runt,” Kurohime says, sitting on Madara to keep him from throwing himself at her with his tiny claws outstretched. If the woman is surprised at the high-pitched sounds of his muffled rage, she doesn’t show it. “He won’t be a bother, and Tobirama-sama has a fondness for unwanted strays.”

Madara would marvel at the sheer _audacity_ if he weren’t a little occupied with being suffocated.

“That he does,” Tōka acknowledges dryly. “See if our new friend can distract him, will you? Hashirama is still away, but with Tobirama unwell there’s no saying what the hell will be unleashed when he comes back.”

Just like that, Madara is walking into the Senju compound, still tucked out of sight between Kurohime’s legs as the two she-cats smuggle him across plant-lined streets and busy courtyards towards the Head house.

He doesn’t realize that he’d been holding his breath until the door slides shut behind him and the immediate tension leaves him in a gusty exhale.

“Dispel the henge before you go to meet him,” Mizushi reminds Madara sternly, steely green eyes narrowing as he releases the transformation jutsu. “I won’t have you surprising him.”

Madara would snort in derision if she weren’t twice his size with serrated claws like upscaled crampons. “No one can _surprise_ Senju Tobirama.”

The leopardess blinks, tipping her sleek broad head to the side. “You really don’t know, do you, Uchiha?”

He doesn’t get a chance to respond before Tobirama coughs, breath rattling in his chest so loudly that Madara can hear it down the hallway.

His first priority is and always will be centered around the welfare of his precious people, and _oh,_ Tobirama is precious to him. Dangerously so, actually – Madara is an Uchiha, and he has never known a love that didn’t hurt, but the sheer strength of his feelings is almost _terrifying._ There is nothing he can think of that he _wouldn’t_ do to keep him; really, infiltrating the compound of his people’s oldest enemies to feed his bastard soup is insignificant in the face of what he would sacrifice for them.

(Tobirama has such pretty red eyes. He’s glowing head to foot in a spill of silver starlight, staring at nothing in particular and murmuring to himself about chakra theory and jutsu properties and whether or not Mito would like new hairpins for her birthday. Something about the contrast of bloody moonlight against his hellfire eyes and hoarfrost hair is addicting, and Madara couldn’t tear his gaze away to save his life.)

He slips into Tobirama’s bedroom with the summons on his heels. This is the first time he’s ever been here, and he should take a moment to examine this sheltered sanctuary; few people have ever had such a privilege, and Madara should count himself lucky to be one of them.

His eyes are drawn with magnetic surety to the pale silhouette of the man curled up in the mound of blankets, and he is only able to distract himself long enough to notice the empty bottles, evidence of hydration past.

Tobirama is one of the strongest people Madara knows, certainly among the sharpest, unquestionably the smartest. Izuna is fine albeit miserable, and Tobirama has always been his equal; there should be no reason to worry, but…

Kurohime was right about the severity of his condition. Whatever has Madara’s little brother vomiting mucous all over Kaa-chan’s nicest furniture has Hashirama’s limp and lifeless beneath a thick pile of furs, frighteningly still but for his violent shivering.

Mizushi materializes at Tobirama’s side, rough tongue rasping over his pink-red cheeks and fever-flushed forehead. The subsequent grimace that creases her silvery muzzle cannot mean anything good. He stirs with a wheeze, squirming towards the warmth of her weatherproof pelt before his chakra-sense flares and he notices Madara’s presence.

To his credit, he makes a valiant attempt at reaching out, but Madara is stronger even without the benefit of good health and stops him before he can try.

Tobirama blinks, lovely red eyes foggy and unfocused, gaze settling on some nebulous point three inches to the right of Madara’s nose. “Stupid – stupid U-chi-_ha,_ what are you _doing_ here—”

His face is slick with sweat and Katon-hot beneath Madara’s hands, the soft, raspy croak of his voice fading into nothingness as he leans into touch.

“Don’t strain yourself, koibito,” Madara scolds him gently, scooping him up and into his lap so that Mizushi and Kurohime can rearrange his pillows and change his sheets. “Hush, hush, I’m here now, you’re safe. Relax, my darling, just rest for a moment.”

Tobirama blinks again, his every movement sluggish. _“Been_ resting. It’s, it’s time to – it’s time to—” His brow furrows, lips twisting into a pout. “Whassit time to again?”

“Soup,” Madara informs him, sitting him against the wall as he reaches for his first-aid scroll, containing a few liters of edible magma along with saline spray and kitty treats, enough to be split evenly between the four of them. “Open your mouth – oh, darling, is that _blood?_ Gods, Tobi, where the _fuck_ is your useless anija? Here, have some water, love. Hydrate.”

The only clean container within reach is a graduated flask covered in immensely disturbing writing so sloppy that it borders on illegible, but Tobirama takes it without a second thought, managing enough coordination to carry it all the way to his mouth but not so much that he can do more than spill the water all over his chest.

Kurohime rumbles in disapproval. “No, no, you have to do it yourself, just don’t let him _choke._ It goes like _this—”_

Madara is about to flay her with an appropriately debilitating retort when his mind’s eye begins to sting, sensor’s sight drawn with magnetic surety to the blinding brilliance of a chakra signature entering his range.

_Hashirama’s_ chakra signature.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm hoping that i'll come back later with funnie things to say but all i have right now is the certain knowledge that uchiha madara is a himbo

**Author's Note:**

> please shower me with love and affection and comments and kudos. i work so hard to produce content CONSTANTLY like seriously i write with every spare moment of time that i have
> 
> not to be a thirsty bitch but acknowledgement makes it all worth it
> 
> anyway i hope you enjoyed!! there will be plenty more to come


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